


Tempting

by Tammany



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, God's View, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 10:57:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20096149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: This...happened.Here's the thing: any fiction in which God is "real," presents a challenge. Because at some level, God becomes an observant, operant figure. THE observant, operant figure. If she is real, and she is good, and she is love, then whatever else, her ineffable plan has to be better than her written plan--or it all falls apart.Which means that every so often she steals the reins of the narrative, an whispers things in the ears of her fanfic writers--and her demons.It's meta as hell, sentimental, and God knows (quite well) that it's about love.





	Tempting

Watch him, Crowley. Yes. Just watch him.

He’s sitting tailor-fashion on the floor of his bookstore. The closed sign is up on the door. The blinds are pulled. He’s got what he needs: a mess of printouts from off the internet, the iPhone you gave him last month set up to run YouTube, and, of course, always, reliably: the Boy’s Big Book of Impractical Magic.

A rabbit sits in a box near him, munching contentedly on a carrot, complete with shaggy greens. It’s raised “too-cute” to a level even the internet hasn’t yet experienced. He’s let the dove free, expecting that between training and angelic authority he can call it to him when he needs it. He’s wrong.

But you knew that.

Aziraphale is to magic as Newt Pulsifer is to electrical engineering of a high level.

All right, demon, you’re right—I’m being kind. Probably to both of them. Poor lads: they are as I made them, neither more nor less.

Watch him. Look at him. He’s never going to roll that coin over his knuckles with any finesse. A thousand-thousand years from now he’ll still be trying, though. He’ll try again, and again. And—yes, oops. Drop it again. And pick it up and try again. He could magic it across his knuckles—he could magic it across the stars. He is an angel…but he’ll still try to do this precious, frivolous human thing, and he’ll fail forever. And love it forever.

His eyes will light up the way you know they do. He’ll smile. His body will quiver in anticipation.

That, Crowley, is why he is beloved by me—he takes delight in my creation.

Watch him. He’s so bad at it. One fears for the supernaturally cute rabbit and the fluttering dove. He’s killed before—one might perhaps stop him before he kills again. But you know—you know with all your heart, as I do, that if he hurts a dove his face will fall—if a rabbit dies those gentle hands will smooth the ears and caress the limp feet, and he’ll look both ways as though he could hide his coming actions from me—and he’ll work a miracle. And only then, when the dove flaps angel-wings, and the kawaii bunny wriggles its pink nose—so like his own pink nose—only then will the light come back to his eyes, and the smile shine forth.

He’s trying to palm the ace, now. See the intensity of his focus? The light in his eyes? The faint frown between his brows?

Yes. He dropped it. And all the rest of the cards, after.

The bunny, now. Ah. Yes. Can’t bear to part it from its carrot, so it’s cuddle time instead. Aziraphale sitting tailor-fashioned on a carpet, surrounded by magical paraphernalia and instruction sets—and he’s going to hug the bunny for the next half hour. Or more. And croon to it. And smooth its silken ears. And determine where to keep it in his shop, now he’s bought it anyway. No, you’re right: he will not thank you if you offer to eat it in your snake form.

I know you love those hands. Gentle hands. Kind hands. Hands that work miracles…that heal hurts.

Crowley—I know.

It comes under the heading of “omniscient,” as you’d know if you’d paid attention any time this past post-creation period.

I know you watch him without me needing to tell you. I know you cherish each stupid trick he fails to perform, even as it annoys you endlessly. I know you wish, hope, dream that he looks at you as intently as he looks at the bunny and the coin and the Boy’s Big Book of Impractical Magic.

I know it frightens you to love him.

This, my dearest dear, my lost demon child, my fallen angel—this is the time for “Fear not, for I bring you tidings of great joy.”

He is yours.

Your angel. He has been your angel for most of your long, long life. He is yours to love. We’ll share him. He is as adorable as his rabbit, and far more knowingly kind. The rabbit? A bit of a dolt, honestly. A huge lop-ear, bred to fill someone’s cook pot originally. He’s mainly interested in his carrot. Aziraphale, though?

Do you know what I love? The way he can eat a Steak Diane, each bit cut small and dainty, manners impeccable—until you look into his eyes and see a ravening tiger devouring each sensation, gulping down the reality of Steak Diane—the interplay of divine creation, mortal embodiment, and human creativity. One creative god, plus one distinctly mortal ex-cow, plus one human chef with art in his hands and inspiration in his heart. And our angel—he rips into it as though he were starving.

When you kiss him, he will devour that, too. He’s going to eat you alive, my darling demon-boy. And you can put it on constant play, and do it for all eternity. The smiles. The fights. The confessions and apologies and humble regrets.The making up. The negotiations as you travel together into new territory. The reconciliations.

My dearest, you can have it all. It’s there _for you._ Yes—just as you are. Hurt, scarred, disfigured. Yellow of eye, serpentine of form on occasion, crow-winged, cavorting in mischief and mayhem. A trickster if not a devil outright. You thought I’d never notice as you sauntered vaguely downward.

You regretted when you found I did. It was a long Fall once you lost your footing.

But you’ve come a long way since then, my dear one.

To begin with, you hear me again. When you’re willing. When that angel fills your heart up until it’s about to break wide and flood your soul.

Yes, love. You have a soul. All things sourced from my creation have souls. And all souls are part of my soul.

No—don’t turn away. Look—look at _him._

I made him, Crowley. As I made you. I made that bumble-puppy heart. I made that smile that lights the heavens. I made that tempest of curls. But he—he himself creates the tender caress that idiot bunny fails to appreciate more than carrots. He himself is the one who breathes passion into bad stage magic. He lives, and loves, and in doing so fulfills my _ineffable_ plan.

And he loves you, Crowley.

Take him, my dearest demon. Take him as surety that I, too, love you.

What?

Tempting you?

_Moi? _ You think? Ineffable happenchance I do?

Idiot.

She who made kittens made snakes in the grass, my dearest boy. I see the sparrow’s fall—as I saw yours. And I palm my cards and hide my miracles so much better than the angel…I save my lambs. And my doves. I save them unto myself, unto my timeless time, if nothing else. A little temptation is nothing new. I invented it, after all. As Satan learned to his dismay.

Love him, you dear, foolish idiot. It’s all right.

I am watching you…hiding there among the bookshelves. In the shadows. I am watching you watching him, your eyes no less alight than his. Your face no less alive. Your heart no less tender.

Create your future, you foolish demon. Make it to your own desire. Magic the best ending you can imagine. Bless my creation with your love.

And when you are done, and your star has gone dark, and your angel is lost, and it all seems over.

You will come to my hands, and I will cherish you.

And I will say what I say.

It is good, Crowley. I promise you, it is good.


End file.
